RIP Mr. Allingham... I had to laugh at his statement attributing his longevity... one hell of a man! I know it's old, but I can't help repeating the phrase "we may never see his like again" ... probably too true now, despite the valour of those who serve in all capacities - it's a different world now.

He went to war as a teenager, helped keep flimsy aircraft flying, survived his wounds and came home from World War I to a long — very long — and fruitful life.

But only in his last years did he discover his true mission: to remind new generations of the sacrifices of the millions slaughtered in the trenches, killed in the air, or lost at sea in what Britons call the Great War.

Allingham, who was the world’s oldest man when he died Saturday at 113, attributed his remarkable longevity to “cigarettes, whisky and wild, wild women.”

Jokes aside, he was a modest man who served as Britain’s conscience, reminding young people time and time again about the true cost of war.

“I want everyone to know,” he told The Associated Press during an interview in November. “They died for us.”

He was the last surviving original member of the Royal Air Force, which was formed in 1918. He made it a personal crusade to talk about a conflict that wiped out much of a generation. Though nearly blind, he would take the outstretched hands of visitors in both of his, gaze into the eyes of children, veterans and journalists and deliver a message he wanted them all to remember about those left on the battlefield.

“I don’t want to see them forgotten,” he would say quietly. “We were pals.”

Only a handful of World War I veterans remain of the estimated 68 million mobilized. There are no French veterans left alive; just one left now in Britain; and the last living American-born veteran is Frank Woodruff Buckles of Charles Town, West Virginia. The man believed to have been Germany’s last surviving soldier has also died.

“It’s the end of a era— a very special and unique generation,” said Allingham’s friend, Dennis Goodwin. “The British people owe them a great deal of gratitude.”

Born June 6, 1896, during the reign of Queen Victoria, Allingham would later recall sitting on his grandfather’s shoulders waving a flag for King Edward VII’s coronation in 1902. Transportation was horse drawn, coal was the primary fuel, street lighting was gas and in the financial heart of London, there was same-day mail delivery.

But the world was changing fast. In 1903, Wilbur and Orville Wright flew an airplane at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, and in 1913, Henry Ford began making Model Ts on an assembly line in Michigan.

Allingham left school at 15 and was working in a car factory in east London when war broke out in 1914.

He spent the war’s first months refitting trucks for military use, but when his mother died in June 1915, he decided to join up after seeing a plane circling a reservoir in Essex, east of London.

“It was a captivating sight,” he wrote in his memoir. “Fascinated, I sat down on the grass verge to watch the aircraft. I decided that was for me.”

That chance encounter with an early flying machine was to change his life.

It was only a dozen years after the Wright brothers first put up their plane, and Britain’s air resources were primitive. Allingham and other valiant airmen set out from eastern England on motorized kites made with wood, linen and wire. They piled on clothes and smeared their faces in Vaseline, whale oil or engine grease to try to block the cold.

“To be honest, all the planes were so flimsy and unpredictable — as well as incapable of carrying large fuel loads — at the start of the war that both British and German pilots would immediately turn back rather than face each other in the skies if they did not enjoy height supremacy,” Allingham would later write. “But I remember getting back on the ground and just itching to take off again.”

As a mechanic, Allingham’s job was to maintain the rickety craft. He also flew as an observer on a biplane. At first, his weaponry consisted of a standard issue Lee Enfield .303 rifle — sometimes two. Parachutes weren’t issued.

He fought in the Battle of Jutland, the largest naval battle of World War I. He served on the Western Front, by now armed with a machine gun. He was wounded in the arm by shrapnel during an attack on an aircraft depot, but survived.

After the war he worked at the Ford motor factory and raised two children with his wife, Dorothy. She died in 1970, and when his daughter Jean died in 2001, friends say he waited to die, too. His will to live was waning; his life seemed without a larger purpose.

That’s about the time he met Goodwin, a nursing home inspector who realized that veterans of Allingham’s generation were not getting the care they needed to address the trauma they had experienced at the Somme, Gallipoli and Ypres and the other blood-drenched World War I battlefields. Some veterans ached to return to the battlefields to pay their respects to their slain friends, and Goodwin found himself organizing trips to France for that purpose.

He encouraged Allingham to share his experiences and the veteran, even though he had passed the century mark, started talking to reporters and school groups, providing the connection to a lost generation some had forgotten. He found himself leading military parades. He was made an Officer of France’s Legion of Honor and received other honors.

He met Queen Elizabeth II and wrote his autobiography with help from Goodwin. It was called “Kitchener’s Last Volunteer,” a reference to Britain’s Minister for War who rallied men to the cause. Prince Charles wrote the introduction.

He grew accustomed to being one of the last ones standing. Last year, he joined Harry Patch, Britain’s last surviving World War I soldier, and the late Bill Stone, the country’s last sailor, in a ceremony at the Cenotaph war memorial near the houses of Parliament in London, to mark the 90th anniversary of the war’s end at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918.

As the wreaths were being laid, Allingham pushed himself up out of his wheelchair to place his arrangement at the base of the memorial — refusing the help of an officer deployed at his side. He leaned forward and placed the red poppy wreath beside the others. Tears flowed.

Allingham remained outspoken until his death, pleading for peace and begging anyone who would listen to remember those who died.

“I think we need to make people aware that a few men gave all they had to give so that you could have a better world to live in,” he said. “We have to pray it never happens again.”

Goodwin said Allingham’s funeral will take place in Brighton. He is survived by five grandchildren, 12 great-grandchildren, 14 great-great grandchildren and one great-great-great grandchild.

All of the serious casualties don't die. Here's a good article about a survivor.

For those of you who are non-golfers, David Feherty is an irreverent TV Golf Analyst. An Irishman and former touring professional, he has a whimsical and often sarcastic view of the world and of professional golf. This article is particularly good. Enjoy. -
Soldiering On
The Troops First Foundation gives America's injured vets a chance to reclaim their dignity
By David Feherty
Contributing Writer, GOLF Magazine
Published: August 26, 2009
The final round of Tiger's AT&T National at Congressional Country Club in J uly was particularly satisfying for me to witness because I followed the host toward his one shot victory over Hunter Mahan, who had earlier posted an incredible 62. Hunter has supported my Troops First Foundation events since the beginning, and like Tiger, his dad served in the military. Earlier that week, Hunter, Rod Pampling, Jason Gore, Pat Perez, Kelly Tilghman and Tom Watson played with thirty or so seriously injured servicemen and women (most of them amputees) in my 2nd Annual Improvised Explosive Day of Golf at the Chevy Chase Club. This year I had another amazing group of warriors, from Rob Brown — a below-the-knee amputee who may represent the U.S. in both the regular Olympics in kayak and Para-Olympics in track and field — to 22-year-old PFC Brendan Marrocco of the 25th Infantry, who on Easter Sunday in Tikrit was robbed of all four limbs plus his left eye.
It takes a while to figure out how to react to the severely injured members of our armed forces, but after almost three years of being around them, I think I have it figured out. This year's IED of Golf was the first time I'd met Brendan, with whom it is impossible to shake hands, play footsie, chest bump or, for that matter, pull his finger. A stump-to-knuckles thing had to suffice, and after that I embarked on what is now my normal procedure for getting to know a new member of my F-troop, who was being driven around in a cart by his brother Mike. It went something like this:
Me: "You know, you're not20as tall as I thought you'd be."
Brendan: "I used to be taller."
"Yes, I can imagine. So, what would you like to do today?"
"I'd like to kick your ass."
"Well, that seems unlikely. Obviously you can't walk, but you look like you'd bounce pretty well. Are you going to be okay in that cart without a seat belt?
"Yeah, I can hold on with my butt cheeks."
"Excellent! Well, clench on, brother — I'll see you out there."
(Later that morning)
Me: "Hey, Stumpy, how's it going?"
Brendan: "I like this — is there any chance I can go watch Tiger with you this week?"
"I'll get you inside the ropes if I have to wear you like a f-----g hat."
"Man, that's cold."
"Hey, get used to it, kid — you're an F-trooper now."
These exchanges usually horrify first-time witnesses, but after a few moments, everyone gets it. Brendan has lost his limbs, not his mind, but more important for a man who has been trained to be one of the best soldiers on the planet, he has lost his dignity. By his reactions to my seemingly callous assaults on what is left of him, Brendan regains a little of that dignity each time. Brendan, like the rest of my men and women, is more courageous, more inspiring, more complete, and funnier than any able-bodied person I know. His intelligence and his sense of humor are the only weapons he has left to defend himself, and he will use them in a manner that leaves those of us who are lucky enough to have him and others l ike him defending our freedom utterly awestruck and humbled.
Tiger had a one-shot lead after the 17th hole, and as he stood waiting for Anthony Kim to putt out, I put my hand on his shoulder and told him that Brendan, who had followed him all day in a cart inside the ropes, was now in his wheelchair where Tiger would turn the corner to go to the 18th tee. Tiger smiled at me and nodded. Before heading to the last tee, Tiger hunkered down and knuckle-stumped one of his heroes, PFC Brendan Marrocco. Brendan, who before that day had been ashamed and frightened to go out in public, was wheeled by his father, Alex, and his brother Mike down the center of the 18th fairway to an overwhelming, roaring, standing ovation. He lifted what is left of one of his arms in a salute, and this announcer wept like Gary McCord at a Barry Manilow concert as Tiger looked on in the background, smiling.
It's hard to know which boy the old Green Beret Earl Woods would have been prouder of at that moment, but I do know this: Because of Tiger Woods, Hunter Mahan and the Troops First Foundation, PFC Brendan Marrocco is no longer ashamed to go out in public. And by this winter, he will be hunting birds with us and pulling his own damn trigger, or I'll make the little swine drop and give me twenty. Only a fool would bet against him being able to do both. Like they say, there's strong, and then there's Army Strong.

I would have missed it, except a friend passed it on. The death of a young actress has been making headlines, but the loss of this man barely was mentioned. Our society continues to show skewed priorities.

I would have missed it, except a friend passed it on. The death of a young actress has been making headlines, but the loss of this man barely was mentioned. Our society continues to show skewed priorities.

To only those who would and could appreciate it. This account is one of a kind. A powerful one that touches your heart. Tough duty then as it is now.

Burial at Sea

by LtCol George Goodson, USMC (Ret)

In my 76th year, the events of my life appear to me, from time to time, as a series of vignettes. Some were significant; most were trivial.

War is the seminal event in the life of everyone that has endured it. Though I fought in Korea and the Dominican Republic and was wounded there, Vietnam was my war.

Now 42 years have passed and, thankfully, I rarely think of those days in Cambodia, Laos, and the panhandle of North Vietnam where small teams of Americans and Montangards fought much larger elements of the North Vietnamese Army. Instead I see vignettes: some exotic, some mundane:

*The smell of Nuc Mam.

*The heat, dust, and humidity.

*The blue exhaust of cycles clogging the streets.

*Elephants moving silently through the tall grass.

*Hard eyes behind the servile smiles of the villagers.

*Standing on a mountain in Laos and hearing a tiger roar.

*A young girl squeezing my hand as my medic delivered her baby.

*The flowing Ao Dais of the young women biking down Tran Hung Dao.

*My two years as Casualty Notification Officer in North Carolina, Virginia, and Maryland.

It was late 1967. I had just returned after 18 months in Vietnam . Casualties were increasing. I moved my family from Indianapolis to Norfolk, rented a house, enrolled my children in their fifth or sixth new school, and bought a second car.

A week later, I put on my uniform and drove 10 miles to Little Creek, Virginia. I hesitated before entering my new office. Appearance is important to career Marines. I was no longer, if ever, a poster Marine. I had returned from my third tour in Vietnam only 30 days before. At 5'9", I now weighed 128 pounds - 37 pounds below my normal weight. My uniforms fit ludicrously, my skin was yellow from malaria medication, and I think I had a twitch or two.

I straightened my shoulders, walked into the office, looked at the nameplate on a Staff Sergeant's desk and said, "Sergeant Jolly, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Goodson. Here are my orders and my Qualification Jacket."

Sergeant Jolly stood, looked carefully at me, took my orders, stuck out his hand; we shook and he asked, "How long were you there, Colonel?" I replied "18 months this time." Jolly breathed, you must be a slow learner Colonel." I smiled.

Jolly said, "Colonel, I'll show you to your office and bring in the Sergeant Major. I said, "No, let's just go straight to his office." Jolly nodded, hesitated, and lowered his voice, "Colonel, the Sergeant Major. He's been in this job two years. He's packed pretty tight. I'm worried about him." I nodded.

Jolly escorted me into the Sergeant Major's office.

"Sergeant Major, this is Colonel Goodson, the new Commanding Officer.

The Sergeant Major stood, extended his hand and said, "Good to see you again, Colonel." I responded, "Hello Walt, how are you?" Jolly looked at me, raised an eyebrow, walked out, and closed the door.

I sat down with the Sergeant Major. We had the obligatory cup of coffee and talked about mutual acquaintances. Walt's stress was palpable. Finally, I said, "Walt, what's the h-ll's wrong?" He turned his chair, looked out the window and said, "George, you're going to wish you were back in Nam before you leave here. I've been in the Marine Corps since 1939. I was in the Pacific 36 months, Korea for 14 months, and Vietnam for 12 months. Now I come here to bury these kids. I'm putting my letter in. I can't take it anymore." I said, "OK Walt. If that's what you want, I'll endorse your request for retirement and do what I can to push it through Headquarters Marine Corps."

Sergeant Major Walt Xxxxx retired 12 weeks later. He had been a good Marine for 28 years, but he had seen too much death and too much suffering.

He was used up.

Over the next 16 months, I made 28 death notifications, conducted 28 military funerals, and made 30 notifications to the families of Marines that were severely wounded or missing in action. Most of the details of those casualty notifications have now, thankfully, faded from memory. Four, however, remain.

MY FIRST NOTIFICATION

My third or fourth day in Norfolk, I was notified of the death of a 19 year old Marine. This notification came by telephone from Headquarters Marine Corps. The information detailed:

*Name, rank, and serial number.

*Name, address, and phone number of next of kin.

*Date of and limited details about the Marine's death.

*Approximate date the body would arrive at the Norfolk Naval Air Station.

*A strong recommendation on whether the casket should be opened or closed.

The boy's family lived over the border in North Carolina, about 60 miles away. I drove there in a Marine Corps staff car. Crossing the state line into North Carolina, I stopped at a small country store / service station / Post Office. I went in to ask directions.

Three people were in the store. A man and woman approached the small Post Office window. The man held a package. The Store owner walked up and addressed them by name, "Hello John. Good morning Mrs. Cooper."

I was stunned. My casualty's next-of-kin's name was John Cooper!

I hesitated, then stepped forward and said, "I beg your pardon. Are you Mr. and Mrs. John Cooper of (address.)

The father looked at me-I was in uniform - and then, shaking, bent at the waist, he vomited. His wife looked horrified at him and then at me. Understanding came into her eyes and she collapsed in slow motion. I think I caught her before she hit the floor.

The owner took a bottle of whiskey out of a drawer and handed it to Mr. Cooper who drank. I answered their questions for a few minutes. Then I drove them home in my staff car. The store owner locked the store and followed in their truck. We stayed an hour or so until the family began arriving.

I returned the store owner to his business. He thanked me and said, "Mister, I wouldn't have your job for a million dollars." I shook his hand and said, "Neither would I."

I vaguely remember the drive back to Norfolk. Violating about five Marine Corps regulations, I drove the staff car straight to my house. I sat with my family while they ate dinner, went into the den, closed the door, and sat there all night, alone.

My Marines steered clear of me for days.

I had made my first death notification.

THE FUNERALS

Weeks passed with more notifications and more funerals. I borrowed Marines from the local Marine Corps Reserve and taught them to conduct a military funeral: how to carry a casket, how to fire the volleys and how to fold the flag.

When I presented the flag to the mother, wife, or father, I always said, "All Marines share in your grief." I had been instructed to say, "On behalf of a grateful nation...." I didn't think the nation was grateful, so I didn't say that.

Sometimes, my emotions got the best of me and I couldn't speak. When that happened, I just handed them the flag and touched a shoulder. They would look at me and nod. Once a mother said to me, "I'm so sorry you have this terrible job." My eyes filled with tears and I leaned over and kissed her.

ANOTHER NOTIFICATION

Six weeks after my first notification, I had another. This was a young PFC. I drove to his mother's house. As always, I was in uniform and driving a Marine Corps staff car. I parked in front of the house, took a deep breath, and walked towards the house. Suddenly the door flew open, a middle-aged woman rushed out. She looked at me and ran across the yard, screaming "NO! NO! NO! NO!"

I hesitated. Neighbors came out. I ran to her, grabbed her, and whispered stupid things to reassure her. She collapsed. I picked her up and carried her into the house. Eight or nine neighbors followed. Ten or fifteen later, the father came in followed by ambulance personnel. I have no recollection of leaving.

The funeral took place about two weeks later. We went through the drill. The mother never looked at me. The father looked at me once and shook his head sadly.

ANOTHER NOTIFICATION

One morning, as I walked in the office, the phone was ringing. Sergeant Jolly held the phone up and said, "You've got another one, Colonel." I nodded, walked into my office, picked up the phone, took notes, thanked the officer making the call, I have no idea why, and hung up. Jolly, who had listened, came in with a special Telephone Directory that translates telephone numbers into the person's address and place of employment.

The father of this casualty was a Longshoreman. He lived a mile from my office. I called the Longshoreman's Union Office and asked for the Business Manager. He answered the phone, I told him who I was, and asked for the father's schedule.

The Business Manager asked, "Is it his son?" I said nothing. After a moment, he said, in a low voice, "Tom is at home today." I said, "Don't call him. I'll take care of that." The Business Manager said, "Aye, Aye Sir," and then explained, "Tom and I were Marines in WWII."

I got in my staff car and drove to the house. I was in uniform. I knocked and a woman in her early forties answered the door. I saw instantly that she was clueless. I asked, "Is Mr. Smith home?" She smiled pleasantly and responded, "Yes, but he's eating breakfast now. Can you come back later?" I said, "I'm sorry. It's important. I need to see him now."

She nodded, stepped back into the beach house and said, "Tom, it's for you."

A moment later, a ruddy man in his late forties, appeared at the door. He looked at me, turned absolutely pale, steadied himself, and said, "Jesus Christ man, he's only been there three weeks!"

Months passed. More notifications and more funerals. Then one day while I was running, Sergeant Jolly stepped outside the building and gave a loud whistle, two fingers in his mouth....... I never could do that..... and held an imaginary phone to his ear.

Another call from Headquarters Marine Corps. I took notes, said, "Got it." and hung up. I had stopped saying "Thank You" long ago.

Jolly, "Where?"

Me, "Eastern Shore of Maryland. The father is a retired Chief Petty Officer. His brother will accompany the body back from Vietnam ...."

Jolly shook his head slowly, straightened, and then said, "This time of day, it'll take three hours to get there and back. I'll call the Naval Air Station and borrow a helicopter. And I'll have Captain Tolliver get one of his men to meet you and drive you to the Chief's home."

He did, and 40 minutes later, I was knocking on the father's door. He opened the door, looked at me, then looked at the Marine standing at parade rest beside the car, and asked, "Which one of my boys was it, Colonel?"

I stayed a couple of hours, gave him all the information, my office and home phone number and told him to call me, anytime.

He called me that evening about 2300 (11:00PM). "I've gone through my boy's papers and found his will. He asked to be buried at sea. Can you make that happen?" I said, "Yes I can, Chief. I can and I will."

My wife who had been listening said, "Can you do that?" I told her, "I have no idea. But I'm going to break my ass trying."

I called Lieutenant General Alpha Bowser, Commanding General, Fleet Marine Force Atlantic, at home about 2330, explained the situation, and asked, "General, can you get me a quick appointment with the Admiral at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters?" General Bowser said, "George, you be there tomorrow at 0900. He will see you."

I was and the Admiral did. He said coldly, "How can the Navy help the Marine Corps, Colonel." I told him the story. He turned to his Chief of Staff and said, "Which is the sharpest destroyer in port?" The Chief of Staff responded with a name.

The Admiral called the ship, "Captain, you're going to do a burial at sea. You'll report to a Marine Lieutenant Colonel Goodson until this mission is completed..."

He hung up, looked at me, and said, "The next time you need a ship, Colonel, call me. You don't have to sic Al Bowser on my ass." I responded, "Aye Aye, Sir" and got the h-ll out of his office.

I went to the ship and met with the Captain, Executive Officer, and the Senior Chief. Sergeant Jolly and I trained the ship's crew for four days. Then Jolly raised a question none of us had thought of. He said, "These government caskets are air tight. How do we keep it from floating?"

All the high priced help including me sat there looking dumb. Then the Senior Chief stood and said, "Come on Jolly. I know a bar where the retired guys from World War II hang out."

They returned a couple of hours later, slightly the worst for wear, and said, "It's simple; we cut four 12" holes in the outer shell of the casket on each side and insert 300 lbs of lead in the foot end of the casket. We can handle that, no sweat."

The day arrived. The ship and the sailors looked razor sharp. General Bowser, the Admiral, a US Senator, and a Navy Band were on board. The sealed casket was brought aboard and taken below for modification. The ship got underway to the 12-fathom depth.

The sun was hot. The ocean flat. The casket was brought aft and placed on a catafalque. The Chaplin spoke. The volleys were fired. The flag was removed, folded, and I gave it to the father. The band played "Eternal Father Strong to Save." The casket was raised slightly at the head and it slid into the sea.

The heavy casket plunged straight down about six feet. The incoming water collided with the air pockets in the outer shell. The casket stopped abruptly, rose straight out of the water about three feet, stopped, and slowly slipped back into the sea. The air bubbles rising from the sinking casket sparkled in the sunlight as the casket disappeared from sight forever....

The next morning I called a personal friend, Lieutenant General Oscar Peatross, at Headquarters Marine Corps and said, "General, get me out of here. I can't take this anymore." I was transferred two weeks later.

I was a good Marine but, after 17 years, I had seen too much death and too much suffering. I was used up.

Vacating the house, my family and I drove to the office in a two-car convoy. I said my goodbyes. Sergeant Jolly walked out with me. He waved at my family, looked at me with tears in his eyes, came to attention, saluted, and said, "Well Done, Colonel. Well Done."

I felt as if I had received the Medal of Honor! Jmac

A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to 'The United States of America ' for an amount of 'up to and including their life.'

That is Honor, and there are way too many people in this country who no longer understand it.'

Interests:Family, friends, people, stuff of life in general --- past, present and future!

Posted 18 April 2010 - 2239 PM

Charles King Sargent, lost 10 Apr 2010.

RIP, Sir.

Michael, I thought it happened April 11, not 10th???? Your initial post was dated the 11th and you said he passed away the day (of the posting it?) Can someone please verify the correct date for me? Thank you. I don't want to have that wrong FYI, I'm back in disbelief. Keeps swinging for me.

Michael, I thought it happened April 11, not 10th???? Your initial post was dated the 11th and you said he passed away the day (of the posting it?) Can someone please verify the correct date for me? Thank you. I don't want to have that wrong FYI, I'm back in disbelief. Keeps swinging for me.

My bad. It was the 11th. For some reason I remembered it being Saturday, not Sunday.

We at The Patriot Post frequently honor America's heroes. Accordingly, we mark the passage of retired Colonel Walker "Bud" Mahurin with both thankfulness and mourning. Col. Mahurin, a fighter pilot who shot down more than two dozen planes in two wars and three theaters, died last week. Bud was 91. The first American pilot to become a double ace in the European Theater, and the only ace to shoot down enemy planes in both European and Pacific Theaters as well as the Korean War, Col. Mahurin was unique among U.S. combat aviators.

Bud joined the Army Air Forces in September 1941 -- just three months prior to Pearl Harbor -- fully anticipating the conflict America faced. Having downed enemy aircraft in every plane he flew -- the P-47 Thunderbolt, the P-51 Mustang and the F-86 Sabre -- today Bud is revered by America's fighter community as one of its all-time top aces. His unrivaled dedication, perseverance and integrity earned him the call sign "Honest John."

Twice shot down in World War II and once during the Korean War, Bud's 16-month captivity and torture during the latter especially tested his call sign, but he would nonetheless live up to it. Subjected to extensive physical and psychological torture by North Korean communists (read: Red Chinese), Col. Mahurin was coerced into signing a "confession" that was wrought with falsehoods. Bud's brutal P.O.W. experiences, however, would shape future generations of fighter aviators through incorporation of Survival-Evasion-Resistance-Escape (SERE) training. That training would later prove invaluable to downed aviators in Vietnam.

Of course, we can never repay Col. Mahurin for his selfless service and heroism. We can and should, however, honor heroes like him by pausing to remember him and by simply saying, "Thank you, Col. Mahurin. Your nation owes you a debt we can never repay -- well done."

I never knew this man but I've known those who have, and he was a fine gentleman. May he Rest In Peace.

BTW, for those of you unfamiliar with him, check out Lovat's piper in The Longest Day. He was every bit that man.

August 19, 2010D-Day bagpiper dies at 88By QMI Agency

The Scottish bagpiper who played as soldiers swarmed the beaches on D-Day has died of a stroke. He was 88.

Bill Millin, 22 when the allies landed at Normandy in France on June 6, 1944, was ordered to keep playing in order to boost the morale of his fellow troops, even as they were being mowed down all around him. Millin's commanding officer defied an order when he instructed Millin to perform.

"Lord Lovat [Millin's commanding officer] said this was going to be the greatest invasion in the history of warfare and he wanted the bagpipes leading it. He said I was to play and he would worry about the consequences later," Millin told the Daily Mail newspaper before he died.

The French government, which has previously awarded him the Croix d'Honneur, unveiled a statue in his honour in June.

One of the four crewmembers killed in the crash of an experimental Gulfstream 650 was my squadron commander, Lt. Col Kent R. Crenshaw, USAF (retired). A fine leader, an excellent test pilot and engineer, a gentleman and a scholar, somebody who contributed to his country in war and peace, in uniform and as a civilian. RIP.